


Baby Steps

by humaankameleonn (nainai96)



Category: Demi Lovato (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cutting, Eating Disorders, F/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nainai96/pseuds/humaankameleonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never stop cutting.  Not really.  You can avoid the seductive call of the blade for six years but then one day, you see the steely glint of a silvery blade and your muscles tense and then you're back to where you were six years ago.  Just as lost, just as sick and still not willing to be found.  But then you came and found me and held me and never let me go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Relapse

**Author's Note:**

> Major trigger warning for self harm. This fic was written for my writer's craft class. Hi Mr. Kubsch!

It starts in steps.

 

Longing:

  * You begin to miss the sharp, clean sting of the razor plunging through your flesh and the sweet sight of the overflowing crimson staining your skin.  You long for the precious seconds before the panic sets in, the moments when all you can think of is the pain and the heat that overwhelms your heart and your arms or legs or wherever else the blade has made its mark.



 

Imagery:

  * Then come the images.  When everything reminds you of the blade or the blood, the panic or the pain, the scars or the heat, the calm or the cold, and you see it and you blink and it’s gone.  They’re swept under the rug, but it’s already too late, and the thoughts are back and so are the dreams and it’s stressful and you know what would help?  Indulgence.



 

Planning:

  * Everyone says that the urge will hit you like a fucking ton of bricks but it won’t, not really.  Well, the initial urge might, but not when it’s an urge to relapse.  It sneaks up on you and slowly suffocates you and you think yeah, maybe if you write it out, that’ll be enough, even though you’re a liar and that it definitely won’t be _close_ to enough but you do it because you’re an addict and that’s what addicts do.  Lie.



 

Preparation:

  * You finish your planning and now you need to go through with it because, as your psychiatrist says, you are no quitter and you  _will_  finish anything you set your mind to.  She would know, wouldn’t she?  She did go to medical school.



 

  * So you start preparing.  For:


    * The mutilation and chance of infection (mental and physical)
    * The paparazzi
    * The fans
    * Your family
    * The pain
    * The pure unadulterated happiness



 

You keep eating though, because you can’t chance someone being astute enough to notice _anything_ , especially a fan or, god forbid, a family member.

 

  * You buy the blades at Walmart with some pocket change one day, the miniscule box small enough to hide in your pocket without causing the fabric to bulge.  The bandages, gauze and rubbing alcohol are from Target with some random bills when your bodyguard is off duty, and while you’re there, you pick up some opaque tights and sweatpants to cover up the cuts.  You start rocking legwarmers and wristbands and thank God that it’s winter, because then there’s some feasible chance that the scars will disappear before the temperature hits the nineties and shorts become mandatory.



 

  
Do It:

 

  * You blast some infectious rock music on your laptop, the one that’s covered in stickers and badges that are peeling off, the one that’s been by your side for five years this Christmas (longer than most of your friendships).  Everyone is either out shopping or setting up interviews and appointments for the new year even though that’s more than nine weeks away.  You’re sitting there wondering if they’re stupid or just too damn trusting of you but you kind of don’t really care because at this point you’re just jonesing for your next fix and _nothing_ matters right now except the rush and the blade and the adrenaline poisoning your veins.



 

  * And then you’re gone with a slash of pure silver and a spurt of bittersweet carmine.   And then there’s the relief, the motherfucking relief and the unfiltered calm that you’ve been anticipating for the past three weeks and all that you can focus on is the sharp, stinging _heat_ that you can’t stop, even if you wanted to.  You just sit there and stare and watch the cataclysm of scarlet, thick and sticky, smothering your worries and anguish with its special overpowering kind of pain that only _you_ can control, and maybe that’s why you like it but the reason doesn’t matter anymore because for the next minute or so, absolutely nothing matters and that in itself brings you long overdue satisfaction.



 

Concealment:

  * Now the moment’s gone and the music stops and everything is just so fucking _clear_ , too clear and sickeningly bright and you’ve gone numb almost everywhere but you look at the harsh light of your clock and then at your newest lacerations (you’ve got to feel a little proud of how clean the lines are and then sick because those definitelyaren’t normal thoughts) and grab the rubbing alcohol, cotton balls and bandages.  You think of how fucking pathetic you are for having a routine for _this_ of all things, but that thought is pushed to fester in the back of your mind.



 

  * You drizzle the clear fluid over the gash, relishing in the twinge almost as much as you did the initial cut.  It’s cold now, and you’re hollow for a bit, losing yourself in the depths of your psyche, drowning some but not worrying because you’re used to it and then resurfacing to find that you’ve cleaned and dressed your newest mark, but not remembering.



 

  * You begin wearing lots of layers and request that the clothes that you’re made to wear for interviews, from here on in, must cover the newest additions to your sick collection, lying through your teeth in saying that you’ve gotten a new tattoo and then laughing through them when they actually believe you.  But you’re also crying yourself to sleep because you need to stop and no one’s noticed.  So you cut some more and the cycle repeats.



 


	2. Away From the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys and Demi are placed in a house together preceding a joint tour.

You walked into my life, completely oblivious to how much you would change it.  You were giddy with excitement and I was a little bit too, and for your sake, I let it show.  I whooped and hollered and toasted and laughed and felt full of your contagious contentment and then I was gone, lying on the roof of the house that we’d be sharing until we were to leave for the tour.

  

I’d been drinking inside the sticky heat of our new house and was more than ready to alleviate myself of the asphyxiating humidity that had followed me upstairs, so I took off my thick sweatshirt and, shuffling over to the edge, dropped it onto the balcony that attached to my room.  It fell heavily, though still managing to land in near silence, the thumping sound muffled by the loudness of the world, of my thoughts.

 

You guys were cool, I had decided, lying back down.  My managers hadn’t been lying when they mentioned that the members of _One Direction_ were down to earth and very much like the boys that I’d gone to school with.  Your personalities had never worried me though, my worries lay with my extremely disorganized mind and the razor blades that were tossed carelessly to the side of my bed or bathtub in a post-mutilation daze and left there to rust.  I had never had to worry about those before as no one ever went into either.  But your boys had little sense of personal boundaries, and it didn’t take much time for you to begin to feel just as comfortable with me.

 

You opened the skylight beside me and climbed up onto the roof, sitting down after moment of hesitation.  I didn’t open my eyes to see who it was, I just lay still, listening to your laboured breath and deeply inhaling the scent that was suddenly permeating the air. The [perfume](http://simpleorganizedchaos.tumblr.com/post/21284504184/baby-steps-nemi-horanvo-part-11) was insatiable and irresistible and kind of a little stifling and maybe that’s why you felt a bit familiar.

 

There was cinnamon and cloves flooding my senses, the warm muskiness of dark chocolate and roses warming my now cool frame.  But something bright and clean came soon after.  I opened my eyes and tasted the air.  It was a cocktail of citrus fruit lingering with subtle undertones of mint and a smooth cream that reminded me of the Bahamas.

 

“Demi?” Your voice was unsure and a little scared, like you were afraid that I might run.  It was also tainted with a clear Irish brogue and I knew that only you hailed straight from the Emerald Isle.

 

You have always been far from shy, so it didn’t escape my notice that you were being almost cautious around me.  You verged on bashful when you were in the same room as me, always quiet and observing, really listening when I spoke, sparse as those moments were.  It was a fair bit unnerving to know that nothing could slip past you, but it was also a little comforting in a way.

 

My eyes snapped wide open when I noticed that you hadn’t moved at all.  You were staring at me, not really focusing on anything until I sat up and stared right back.

 

“Sorry if I disturbed you.” You were running a hand through your thick, bleached blond hair and tugging on the collar of your navy blue polo.  “It’s just – you disappeared a while ago and I – I wanted to make sure that you we-were alright, yeah?”  Your voice was uneven and wavering.  “I’ve brought a blanket for you, i-in case you-you were cold.”  Your smile was easy and full of genuine concern, a rare sight indeed.

 

I liked you then, the purity and truth that poured out of your heart and soul and wrapped me up in a safe little cocoon of obliviousness, so I sent a smile right back your way and patted the spot on to my immediate right.  “Join me.  The stars are gorgeous tonight.”

 

I remember you saying that the sky was black and empty, too dark, too heavy for even the brightest star to peek through.  You were confused, and rightfully so, but you still trusted my judgement enough to hasten to my side, spreading the black fleece over the both of us.

 

I closed your eyes for you, my gentle fingers guiding your flickering lids until you could see nothing, and told you to listen to the darkness.  You were unsure but did it nevertheless.  I don’t know why but you trusted me for those few moments.  You let me push you down so that you were lying down and I smiled a little at your naive and blind entrustment.

 

“Now listen.”

 

You heeded.

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

Noth – wait…

 

Now there’s something…

 

And then you could hear it: the twinkle of stars unseen.

 

You breathed out a “wow”, and then carefully intertwined our fingers, drawing me a little closer to you and a touch farther from the edge.

 

 


	3. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation and emotional release.

We got close after that.  Not outwardly so like the others were, but still showy and loud in our own way.  It didn’t take much time for you to find a fresh cut, two weeks exactly.  It wouldn’t have been half as bad except Liam had unearthed a bloody razor blade from the trash while doing his weekend cleaning, the neat freak.

I’ll never know if you had chosen to find out or if you’d known from the moment that you saw the blade that it was mine, but it really doesn’t matter.  What matters is the fact that I understood the moment that you _knew_.  And that I actually cared enough to be scared. 

After going to the rehab for the first time, I had stopped caring about if people knew, mostly because everyone already did.  I cared enough to conceal and act unawares, but never enough to deny or cry or avoid and the second that I realized how much it mattered to me that you knew, I crumpled.

You had let your pretty sea glass eyes rest on mine as you gently grasped my arms through the warmth of the hoodie that I’d liberated from your closet.  You pulled me to standing and, not once relinquishing your gaze, guided me to your room.

It smelled like you and strawberries, but concentrated times a billion.  It was the scent of a thousand warm hugs and cuddles on the sofa and nineties movies and our favourite shows and it made the blue of your eyes intensify a bit.

“How long?”  Your voice trembled and crackled in its near silence and you blinked slowly.  Once.  Twice.  Four times.

“Not too long.”  _Six months next week._

“You’re still eating though.” You sighed. “Right?”

 _Not as much as I should be._ “Yes.”

You tightened your grasp until I stopped squirming and, sensing that I wouldn’t (or maybe I just couldn’t) meet your concentrated gaze, you just brought me closer until I was pressed flush against your chest.  You wrapped your sinewy arms around my quivering form and brushed your lips across the top of my head.

I was overwhelmed.  The tears flowed freely down the plains of my freckled cheeks, overheating my face and leaving a damp patch in the flannel of your shirt.  Your scent was almost too intense, drowning me a little in a way that was familiar in the saddest of ways.

“Show me.”

I stiffened.  You were pure and sweet, and the idea of ridding you of something so rare and beautiful with the ugly truth of my scars felt obscene.  It felt so wickedly wrong but I knew it had to be done it eventually.  I nodded mechanically into your firm torso.

I didn’t let go immediately.  I held on and pulled you as close as was physically possible, melting into that scent that marked you as you and everything that you loved as perfect.  It took every ounce of my not-so-considerable strength to keep in control and stop myself from sprinting out the door as I untangled my limbs from yours and backed up to your bed.

“Sit.”  You looked too tired and old to be doing this.

I sat rigidly, my heart throbbing in my ears to the point of near deafness.  I remember you kneeling before me and reaching forwards.  You drew my sleeves into your hands and, without a second thought, you pushed them up, obviously expecting to see railroad tracks all over. 

But I’m not that stupid.  I knew that my wrists were off limits.  I looked at you, your eyes fading from confusion to burning comprehension.  You had your head tilted ever so slightly to the left and spoke sharp and soft. 

“Where then?”

I pushed you off my knees and into the nearest chair, heart pumping far too fast, far too hard.  “Promise me.”

Your gentle features sprung back to a befuddled expression. 

“Promise you what?”

I smiled softly and stroked your cheek with my hand. 

“Promise that you won’t be mad at me forever.”  Your cheek was rough with stubble that scraped against my palm, reminding me of the first time that I’d ever lifted a blade to my skin and had the courage to press down.  It had barely left a mark. 

“You can be mad at me for a little while, but I don’t think I can handle forever.”

You never answered me, your eyes fluttering slightly as I withdrew my hand and replaced it with my lips not but a moment later.  My breath was laboured in my efforts to face this head on, to face you and the possible permanent rejection of the only person who really knew me.  My sight started to blur a bit so I cut off that sense quickly, leaning forwards so that my mouth was in line with your ears.

_Remember._

I grasped for air and forced myself to escape the envelope of your delicious scent, the one that kind of made my ears buzz.

Then I was standing by the bed, tugging the hoodie off and pulling off the tank top that with just as much haste.  Like ripping off a Band-Aid.  I pushed my sweatpants to the ground after a moment of thought.

I refused to look at you, at the purity that I’d marred with my insensitivity and reckless behaviour.  I perched myself on the edge of the bed and scooted my way to the centre, carefully draping myself over the thick homemade quilt, my heart racing.  I spread my arms and legs out, like I was impersonating an angel.

My eyes stayed shut as I breathed tensely, expecting you to cry out with total disgust at the sight of my thickened flesh.  It shone brightly, glacially smooth though minutely roughened from my constant picking at scabs and scars, hoping to recreate the sharp pain that I now constantly crave.

Instead, you pressed your full lips against my left thigh, on top of where I had inflicted a particularly large gash, one that had taken months to heal over.  My toes curled at contact and you lifted your head to repeat the action slightly higher up, where a loud argument with my managers was still scabbing over, cracked in spots, dried blood peppering the surrounding skin.  I squeezed my eyes as tight as they would go to try and prevent any tears from leaking through my unyielding lids. 

You covered my skin with light kisses and floating Gaelic words, like a prayer made of hope or something just as cliché. 

Suddenly you weren’t kissing my scarred flesh anymore, and your lips were on mine.  The kiss wasn’t sensual or torrid, instead it was sculpted of light caresses and only glimpses of your tongue on my lips.  It comfortable and refreshing like homemade hot cocoa on a fluffy snow-filled day.

It was hugs and happiness and hurt and broken glass and bubble wrap and hot tears and truly, completely glorious.


End file.
